Quick Synopsis: “James Franco’s collection traces the lives of an extended group of teenagers as they experiment with vices of all kinds, struggle with their families and one another, and succumb to self-destructive, often heartless nihilism.” –I just took this off Goodreads, I don’t even want to bother with a synopsis for this.

Okay. This is a collection of short stories about pretty much privileged white kids and their problems. So they go out and get drunk, high then go out and kill and rape and I’m supposed to connect to them? No sorry. I’ve never had these “problems”.

Each story is so similar to the last, I can’t even handle it. Not only are the plots all almost identical but so is the absolutely absurdly written syntax of every damn story.

I swear, it’s like Franco copied and pasted stories, only switching a few things.

How many times could someone fill a book with stories about alcohol, and teenage penises? Apparently too damn many, honestly.

I don’t think I’ve ever disliked a book this much. I gave it countless tries and I just couldn’t. The subject matter was a little cringe-worthy but not enough to get me to give up. It truly was the terrible writing.

Give it a shot if you want, but as for me, I’m done with Franco as a writer.